


when your seams have come unknitted

by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kidnap Dads, Missing Scene, Post-War of Wrath, or au depends how you interpret canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26827927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster
Summary: Maglor returns alone.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitmo & Maglor | Makalaurë & Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur
Comments: 24
Kudos: 73





	when your seams have come unknitted

**Author's Note:**

> hahaha i told myself i was going to write something happy
> 
> narrator voice: but they did NOT write something happy
> 
> title from The Rockrose and the Thistle by The Amazing Devil

“I’m going out to look for them.” Elros catches the back of Elrond’s tunic before he can make it out the door.

“They said not to. Elrond—you don’t know what you’ll find.”

It has been storming heavily ever since Maedhros and Maglor left. Elrond’s hands tighten into fists. “They might need us.”

Elros shakes his head. He is grown now, and Elrond thinks sometimes he sees too far. He knows—he knows that is what most people think when they look at _him_ , but it is Elros who sees things in whole-cloth, like a leader, like Maedhros. Elrond sees them in scraps and bits and puzzle pieces, out of context. “Don’t,” Elros tells him again.

Elrond knows he is being uncharacteristically anxious. Usually, he’s much better at sitting still than Elros is. He finds stillness easier than his brother. But the roaring of the storm outside draws him back to half-forgotten memories of his youth. He does not know if it was storming at Sirion. He does not know if he remembers seeing his mother fall, but he has a memory of a white form and the sound of thunder. “I cannot stay here and wait any longer,” he whispers. He moved towards the entrance again.

The tent flap opens before he can leave, and Elrond gasps with relief as he recognizes Atya, his black hair plastered to his head, his robes soaked through. The relief is short-lived as Maglor staggers inside and then stands, loosely, not looking at either of the twins. He holds one hand clutched in the other, and his robes are torn, the ends ragged—singed. Singed…?

“Atya.” Elrond pulls him forward. “You are soaked to the bone. Come to the fire. Warm yourself.” He half-expects Atar to enter as well, but he does not. There is nothing outside now but the patter of rain and the sound of the wind. Elrond’s stomach roils, but he draws Maglor to the fire and sits him down firmly. “I’ll make you something hot to drink.”

Elros approaches silently with a towel. “You should take off your wet clothes,” he tells Maglor sternly, as if he were the father and Maglor the child. Maglor gives him a confused, quiet nod, and he does, shrugging off the robes and letting them pool on the floor around him. With a worried look, Elros begins to dry him off. Elrond puts a kettle on the fire to heat, then begins moving around to gather the herbs for a warming draught.

“Let me dry off your hands as well— _Atya_ —” Elros’s cry draws Elrond immediately to his father’s side. Maglor shakes his head, shoulders hunching forward, as he presses his hand to his chest.

“What is it?” Elrond asks urgently.

“His hand is burned,” Elros tells him. “So badly I think it must have reached to the muscle.”

“Atya, let me see,” Elrond says. 

Maglor shakes his head. Then, when Elrond does not move, he finally speaks. “It is none of your concern.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Elrond tells him, sharp in his fear, sharp in the way Maglor stares down at his hands as if he cannot look at either of them. “Atya, let me see.”

“ _No_.” Maglor’s dark eyes look up and catch his own. “It is my own punishment, of my own making. It is nothing you can heal and there is no reason to upset yourself. I should not have let Elros see it either.”

Elrond’s lips thin, but he goes back to making the draught. “Dry him off,” he tells Elros. Then, quietly, “I will look at it later. If he is so stubborn now, it cannot be imminently lethal, at least.”

They labor in silence for a little. Elrond finishes heating the herbal draft and hurries back over to where Elros has tucked two towels around Maglor, for modesty’s sake, and is now carefully brushing out Maglor’s long wild tangle of hair. “Drink this,” Elrond says, and Maglor receives the offering meekly enough, keeping the injured hand curled to his breast the whole time. Elrond waits until the awful pallor has retreated from his cheeks beneath a healthier flush, and then says, “Where is Atar?”

Maglor flinches as if he has been struck. “I must go,” he says, sounding almost wild, almost panicked. “I—I came so that—” He halts as if caught by his own words. “I do not know why I came,” he says, almost pleading. “I should not have come back. I am sorry.”

“Elrond was so worried he was about to brave this storm to find you,” Elros tells him firmly, and Maglor flinches again.

“No,” he says hoarsely. “No. _No_ , I must go, I cannot stay with you any longer, I—”

“What happened?” Elros demands, and his voice echoes with a little of the commanding tone that the two of them have so often heard from Maedhros. “It was the Oath, wasn’t it? Did you kill many Elves, Atya?”

Elrond would tell him to soften his words, but he does not think Maglor would respond to coaxing right now, and they must know—they must _know_. Maglor’s eyes go distant. “I do not believe we killed any this time,” he says softly. “It was dark and raining and there was much confusion. We wounded several.”

“And Atar?”

_No_ , Elrond wants to say, because he is fighting the truth that he has been able to read on Maglor’s visage this whole time _. No, don’t ask. Don’t tell me. Let me believe he will come back, just for a little longer_.

Maglor swallows hard, staring at the fire so intently. “He took the short way to Valinor,” he says softly, crooning almost. Then he looks up at Elrond and laughs a short little laugh. “I am the only one of Fëanor’s sons left in Middle Earth.” He shakes his head. “I must leave,” he says dully. “I should not have come back to begin with, I have only brought more trouble upon you—”

“Be quiet,” Elrond tells him sternly. “Do you think we would have you leave now, Atya? You are injured and all three of us are _grieving_.” There are tears already pricking at the backs of his eyes, grief for Atar mingling with a greedy, terrified, child’s gasp, _At least he is still here. At least Atya is still here with us. One parent_. He exchanges a look with Elros, and Elros gives him a quick, short nod, so Elrond continues speaking, unfair and manipulative and _cruel_ as it may be, “Would you abandon us as so many have already, Atya?”

Maglor flinches so hard he almost drops the mug. “That—that is not—” he protests weakly, and then he looks up at the two of them, and he must see something in their faces. “Oh, my little ones,” he says, his voice rising with a sob. “I love you so much, I would not abandon you like that, I would not, I could not, I did not follow Nelyo because I could not leave _you_ to wonder—” His voice breaks; he sets the mug down carefully and then pulls Elrond and Elros into his arms. “No. I won’t leave you, no matter what, not if you don’t wish me to. I won’t.”

They hold him, and they stroke his hair, as he and Maedhros both did when they were very little, and all three of them let themselves cry for the ones they have lost.


End file.
